GHOSTS
by Gavin Mitchell
Summary: An incomplete story of historical interest, this was eventually superseded by Starcraft Ulysses at the turn of 1999. A new force is introduced to the Mutant Marvelverse circa the Psi-War...


GHOSTS

by gavin mitchell

'Behind closed doors all you live for is taking

That double life of yours has left your whole world shaking

Who are you fooling? I know you hear the laughter

Don't you hear people talking? What is it that you're after?

The key to save yourself if for nothing else

A tongue can never hold the truth of silence is golden

With a broken heart underneath all of the pain?

Do you stroke the pretty scars? The hurt never ends

Turn off your conscience

Leave the world outside

Nothing can ever make you feel

That anything's real, so you just – Disconnect…'

_Megadeth_

To the Ghosts of reality... those who lack the x-factor, but choose to make themselves invisible anyway; to Joe Kelly, Steve Seagle and John Francis Moore, who made it all possible; and, to Aikido, StarCraft and the Gloucester Arms, the only things that have prevented me being a Ghost right now. 

All characters copyright Marvel Comics except for Defender, Hologram, Lifeline, Firebat, Lightfinger, Mistwraith, Deadshot, Phantasma, Arbiter, Defiler, Witch, Air, Cassandra, Lensman and all Ghost-related concepts. This story takes place immediately after X-Force #77 and X-Men #78.

DIXON: These just seem like complete parodies of the kids in X-Force. 

MITCHELL: These _are_ the kids in X-Force. 

...To those who are about to join an oppressed minority...

...we salute you.

There is one absolute truth, one decree that stands alone, one that ought to be written in three-foot-high letters of fire on the walls of every gay bar and university campus and goth nightclub across the world... 

... IF YOU JOIN AN OPPRESSED MINORITY, YOU WILL BE OPPRESSED. 

A matter of simple semantics. 

Some get the choice of whether they join their oppressed minority, and they make their choice out of desire to belong or sexual urges or misguided beliefs or whatever foolish whim might take them. But you had no choice. 

You who are reading this document, know that you are a part of that 1 in 50000 who will be feared and hated throughout your life by the vast majority of the human population simply for _breathing._ More than anyone else, you will be persecuted simply for what you are, rather than your colour, creed, sexuality or politics. For you are homo sapiens/superior -- mutant -- and nothing you can ever do will change that.

Above all others you will be subjugated because your minority has the fewest numbers, and yet the greatest power base of any minority yet seen. There have been mutants of sufficient power to devastate worlds -- the likes of Magneto and Apocalypse and Onslaught have done well enough to make the great unwashed aware of that -- and thus, in a way, the public are right to fear you... so how can you, knowing that they are right, persuade them otherwise?

Yet you are even worse off, because to face oppression from those without your minority is bad enough, but from those within is to add insult to injury. And yet that is what will occur -- mutants like Apocalypse and Sinister will want your genetic material for their own twisted ends... or worse, consider it not worth leaving in the gene pool. 

Meanwhile, mutants risk their lives every day because Xavier or Magneto or Cable tell them that is what they are _supposed_ to do.

If you do not know of the politics of Xavier or Magneto or Cable then you soon will, for it is certain that you will one day know of these men, the misguided leaders of mutantkind. Suffice it to say that the Ghosts are anti-Xavier, anti-Cable, and above all anti-Magneto.

On the notion that humans and mutants can ever live in harmony together we have only this to say; if it were a possibility, would not the X-Men have succeeded by now? The Ghosts do not believe in fighting for pipe-dreams or sacrificing the present in the hope of an uncertain future as the Communists and Fascists so disastrously did. We believe that the only time mutants will ever live in harmony with humans is when both races change so fundamentally that they will no longer be recognizable. By their very nature, humans have always despised the different, will seek to remove whatever does not comply to their paradigm in order to affirm that which they do feel comfortable with -- and, it must be said, many mutants have been no better in their elite contempt of humanity, and have the power to make their opinions felt. And, though the X-Men have by their powers many times saved humans and reality -- once up to and including their own deaths -- we do not believe this makes their Founder any the wiser or their credo any more valuable, for what have the X-Men ever gained from this? Their own deaths, it seemed at one time; apparently little else, and definitely not anything even approaching Xavier's Dream. The humans have persecuted us for generations... do we really owe them our aid? We do what we do for ourselves -- not humanity. 

On the notion that mutants should take an active part in their own self-emancipation, and take up arms against a rising tide of racial oppression, we have this to say; such actions, whether successful or otherwise, or for the good of humans or otherwise, ever bring mutants into the public eye more than they would be else. And those actions are invariably misinterpreted; one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter, and how many more of them are there than us? On what side of the terrorist/freedom fighter scale will the flatscan majority come down? 

And finally, on the notions -- fascistic or otherwise -- that mutants are the next stage of mankind, that they are extinct, that we were born to domination and have the power to claim our birthright, we have only this to say; those who have acted upon it have been very, very certain of something that can't be proved, and more certain still that it is even realizable, of which there is no proof or even indication. The dinosaurs were once the 'next stage of evolution' in their time, and if only mutants could be guaranteed that long upon the earth... As for domination, we have the powers, but they have the numbers; and how many mutants have sufficient power to kill 50,000 humans before the humans destroy them first? In any case, evolution moves slowly, measuring its progress in the geologic ages. We Ghosts believe we have to live in the Now. 

Having rejected all these false and futile doctrines of what we -- the most oppressed minority, the species most threatened with extinction, _ever_ -- should do with our lives, we, the Ghosts, have only one creed. Our ethos, our training, the structure of our organization, the text of this document which any of our members could replicate without thought or even memory, is based upon and is predicated by a simple truism;

TO ESCAPE IS TO CHOOSE INVISIBILITY.

We -- as Ghosts -- will teach you -- as a Ghost -- to follow this creed: to evade oppression by choosing invisibility; by doing so, to live your life to the best of its potential unhampered by a world that fears and hates you; and -- in its proper, tertiary position -- to work towards a realistic and realizable goal of a world where mutants _do not exist_... at least not in any human mind or knowledge, but above their world, above their laws, above their persecution.

We believe a time will come -- and work towards that aeon -- when humans believe that mutants have long since reached extinction, where they become monsters only children are afraid of in a darkened room, where rational and scientific adults will laugh and pooh-pooh our existence...

... in short, mutants will be GHOSTS. 

Dr. Archibald Mendel, 'Defender'

THE GHOST MANIFESTO

PART 1

THE REINS DROP

****

1.1. As a beaten up Cadillac Eldorado pulled out of the town of Almost Reno, New Mexico and headed north, a young girl in shorts who had been crouching in the shadows by the side of the road stared after it in horror and ran out into the road. She was far behind it. Neither the townsfolk nor the car's inhabitants looked at her or even seemed to notice her; though under other circumstances, she would have been certain to be looked at for a variety of reasons. 

Seeming to consider her options, staring frantically several times after the car retreating into a cloud of dust and back into the beat-up redneck hell, she seemed to decide quicker than it takes to say and ran after the car a lot quicker than might have been warranted or even seemed possible. 

The car's inhabitants were not in the best of moods, not least of which because not only had they not wanted to be in the town of Almost Reno in the first place but they hadn't liked what they had found there. The searing heat, their lack of supplies and the continued ineptness of map-reading of their pathfinder were other appreciable factors. In the back seat on the right, a Caucasian young woman with extremely short blonde hair seemed to be doing her best to avoid physical contact with a Hispanic youth of the same age, who in turn was ignoring her in favour of staring fixedly at the passing scenery. Meanwhile on the other side of the car a very large Amerind male was almost being forced out of it by the girl, and seemed to be trying to ignore them. 

In the front seats were a young woman of average build, very pale (and painfully sunburnt) complexion and red hair who was driving with a teeth-grinding expression, and another Native American, a female, who was staring pensively off to the left and ignoring the map spread across her thighs. 

'Dani, have ye found a way out of this awful state yet?' demanded the redhead. 

Dani Moonstar was not paying attention; at least not to anything except the pounding headache right behind her eyes which had started just recently along with some more serious troubles. Normally, a lot more spheres of awareness were open to her than she could currently feel. She'd the feeling that they weren't going to be coming back anytime soon. 

'Goddamnit Dani, why don't you pay attention?' snapped the redhead with sudden fury. 'If someone doesn't look at the map, we'll be ending up somewhere like the last place!'

'I -- I'm sorry.' mumbled the Amerind, pressing her hands to her temples. 'I'm not feeling too good--'

'That makes two of us.' snapped up the blonde girl from behind in an immature-sounding whine. 'Which makes it all the more important that we find somewhere before we all collapse of sunstroke.'

The Hispanic youth muttered something inaudible.

'What was that, Roberto?' snarled the blonde. 'Learned something, have you?'

'Will you two just shut up?' shrieked the redhead in decidely inhuman tones, and the two behind cringed -- somewhat excessively in regards to the comment. 'Don't ye think we've got enough problems without yuir revolting affairs?'

Theresa -- the redhead -- felt bad about yelling at her friends, and worse about -- as she perceived it -- leading them poorly and into a dangerous situation which could've been avoided and, probably, better dealt with. She knew she'd pay for her harsh words and most of the other actions of the past few days later. But right now -- hot, tired, thirsty, with eyes aching from staring into the unforgiving American roads and pale skin screaming from the unforgiving American sun -- she didn't feel she had any other option. She could feel her self control evaporating like dry ice under the same sun that wracked her body. She longed for the cool skies of her native Ireland, but it never seemed farther away than now --

'What the _hell_ is that?' spoke up the Amerind male for the first time in the journey, leaning sharply over the side of the vehicle and pointing an arm like a tree trunk off to the left. The car swayed visibly.

'Jimmy, what--' said Theresa, and her voice died. As one the five passengers stared dumbstruck over to the left. 

The car was travelling at over seventy miles per hour, so there was little time to react. But all the people in the car clearly saw an overturned wagon by the side of the road in a shocking state of repair. It was hung with a variety of ornamentation and tapestries of Native American origin, and by the side were some five or six individuals of that same extraction. They were not so much attending the wagon as collapsed by the side of it. 

As the five young people gazed at the passing scene in horror, it was clear that all were severely injured. Those who could were cradling the mangled bodies of the others, and there were visible pools of blood. Not one of the figures looked whole. In the brief glimpse each of the passengers had, each caught a shocking sight of dismembered limbs and unsurvivable wounds. Though some of the figures were crouched over those on the floor, seemingly trying to help them, they all looked to have little hope of survival. 

Eerily, the whole scene went past in complete and utter silence. But the teenagers were in such a state of shock -- and the engine of the car was so loud -- that this small but significant fact escaped their attention. 

'My God!' gasped Jimmy. 'We have to go and help them!' He reared as though about to leap from the car. In reflexive horror, Theresa reached out and grabbed his lower thigh, preventing him -- though Jimmy of anyone could have survived the leap. 

'Hold, it Jimmy, yuir right, but we can't go killing ourselves. I'll turn the car around.' At one time the feel of her hand on his leg might have been erotic, but right now both of them were too distracted. 

Theresa stopped the car as quickly as she dared and did a rapid three-point turn, ending up facing back the way they had come. The cloud of dust thrown up by their braking obscured their vision of the nightmare behind them, and headed towards them in a cloud, reducing them to coughs and splutters and coating their sweat-streaked skin. 'Hang on, we're in for some shocks.' coughed Theresa, and gunned the car back in the opposite direction, sending the car so thick into the cloud it was enveloped in its own grey universe, the land around them lost to view. 

In the midst of the cloud something nagged at the back of Theresa's brain, a sliver she couldn't quite place. 

_Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding..._

'Something's not right here.' muttered Theresa, but then they cleared the cloud of dust. It immediately became apparent that something was very not right indeed. 

The entire wagon and the broken individuals by it were entirely gone, with no trace of their passing. This major difference, in the eyes of its perceivers, pushed the minor one so far back into the background that in wasn't noticed till long afterwards; there was a simple but obvious change in the countryside. It had been 'mirrored'. The countryside was so nondescript anyway that it wasn't at all obvious except on a subliminal level. 

'What... where did they go?' whispered Tabitha craning over the side of the car. 

Theresa pulled the vehicle over to the kerb and slowed to a halt, sedately this time. She had halted where she thought the wreck was, but to be honest there was nothing to tell one stretch of landscape from the other. 'Okay.' she said. 'Something's gone very wrong here.'

'That wagon could _never_ have moved in time.' said Jimmy emphatically. 'And those people couldn't have moved themselves, let alone the wreck.' He shuddered. All this subject matter was decidedly too close to home. 

'The most obvious explanation.' muttered the Hispanic youth, Roberto, who seemed distinctly underwhelmed by it all, 'is that there was never a wagon there in the first place.' He cradled his chin in his hand and stared pensively at where he thought it might have been. 

'Too right, Roberto.' said Theresa. 'Do we all think this is the most likely explanation for what we've just seen?'

There was a general murmur of assent. 

It ought to be noted at this point that, though this is not the way ordinary teenagers might view such a strange occurrence, there was nothing odd in the calm and decisive way these teenagers reacted to it. They were extraordinary people, who had led extraordinary lives. 

_Images crowd the youngster's fragile eggshell mind..._

Theresa shivered, and dismissed the fragment. Whatever it was it could wait. 'Okay, so we're agreed it was an illusion. The thing is, illusions don't usually just appear; they appear for a purpose. And since we're the only ones around, most likely it was for our benefit. Dani -- do ye sense anything supernatural about this one?'

Dani winced. 'I'm sorry -- no. I have a headache...' she trailed off.

Dani looked genuinely ill, and under other circumstances Theresa might have paid attention, but right now she had more pressing things on our mind. 'Well, the ways and means aren't that important. It's clear that for some reason, an illusion appeared and we have to assume it was to influence us in some way.'

There was a brief silence.

'Right.' said Tabitha. 'So -- which way was it out of here again.'

'You're the map-reader, Dani.' muttered Theresa with finality, and got the engine going again. 

'Almost directly due north.' sighed the Amerind, and leaned her head back, closed her eyes and touched her hand to her forehead in the classic pose of encephalic discomfort. 

Again, the utterly deadpan and dismissive approach of these young people to an obvious illusion might be considered abnormal; but it truth it really wasn't, and not only in this case due to their previous experiences. It was simply logical -- the illusion had appeared, the illusion had disappeared, and there was nothing any of them could do about it. It was indeed quite possible that some entity had created said illusion for their observation and wished them to react in some certain way that was either beneficial or harmful, but neither intents nor actions were at all obvious, so none of them had anything to lose or to gain by simply carrying on as they had before. A matter of simple pragmatism. 

'Due north, ye say, Dani?' murmured Theresa, preparing to take the vehicle out of neutral and step on the gas. 'Which means the sun is meant to be precisely where in the sky to take us out of Almost Reno?'

'On our left.' whispered the brunette. 

There was another brief silence. The car remained in neutral. 

'Which isn't where it is now.' said Theresa. 

'It's not just that.' said James uneasily. 'It's the entire landscape. It's like what was in front of us hasn't changed at all. A mirror image, almost.'

'Which means that, in an ideal world...' started Theresa...

'...we should be headed the way we are currently going...' put in Tabitha...

'...which is the opposite direction to the way we were heading...' muttered Roberto...

'...after we got turned around.' finished Jimmy, looking increasingly moody. 'I don't like this at all.'

'Well, I think it's now pretty clear which way Mr. or Mrs. Illusionist wants us to go.' said Theresa, switching the engine off once more and swinging herself round in the car to face into the back seat. 'To which we must now ask ourselves the question, why, and what for, do all indications point to us heading back to Almost Reno?'

'It _must_ be one of the children.' said Tabitha immediately, leaning forward. 'Mary might still need us -- or one of the others. Those goons might be doing something... we should head back there immediately. We never should have left Mary alone...'

'Steady on, Tab. Any of what you say might be true, but none of those kids were at all adept with using their powers -- they'd no training, and no reason to have any. This illusion would have to have a fair degree of sophistication and control, and the SHIELD goons aren't exactly about to teach their charges how to turn on them...'

'Maybe we're inside one of those Moebius-strip pocket universe type things.' said Roberto, staring off over the plains. 'And maybe whichever way we'll drive we'll keep ending up facing the opposite way we did before, and never get anywhere...' A faint smile touched his lips. 

'Not anywhere near as likely as the fact that this is simply an illusion, unless you're being facetious which I rather suspect, in which case I'll treat that remark with the contempt it deserves.' snapped Theresa. 'Does anyone have any more constructive suggestions?'

'I think we should get out of here immediately.' stated James with finality. 'I haven't lost track of which way we're going. I can lead us out.'

Theresa turned and regarded him curiously (if not appreciatively) from under her fair red-blonde eyebrows. 'What makes ye so certain, Jamie? I'm not so sure this has anything to do with Almost Reno, or anything else at all. Why are ye so desperate to leave?'

'I'm not sure it has anything to do with the town either.' said the big youth, gazing down at his hands, 'but I am sure, that this... glamour... was created to deceive us, and that if we go along with it, we will find ourselves in a situation that is far beyond our ability to deal with. I know this... but how, I do not know. What I do know is that the power involved here isn't sufficient to prevent us from driving away and never having anything to do with any of this. Because whatever is going on here... it is nothing to do with us.' He fell silent. 

There was a somewhat over-awed silence. 'Dani, what do you think?' said Theresa, to break the tension as much as anything. She couldn't help wondering if not the characteristics of the illusion had turned James's opinion. While they had obviously shaken her along with everyone else, to her they seemed to have a quality not unlike... deja vu.

'I'm not sure I think anything.' said Moonstar in a tiny voice. 'Other than that I can't feel any of the things James spoke about, or anything else apart from the pain in my head. I chiefly feel I would like to lie down out of the sun, Men in Black or otherwise.'

'I suspect Dani votes for going back into town then.' muttered Theresa, 'if only as far as the pharmacy. What I want to know is, what do the rest of you think? We believe that this illusion or whatever it is, or whatever agency creates it, wants us to go back to Almost Reno for whatever purpose. For my part, if all we have to deal with are SHIELD agents and mutant children, I think we should have an easy time. Perhaps we should take a vote?'

'There is nothing to vote on.' stated Tabitha emphatically. 'The children may need us, and we know we're the only ones willing to help.'

Roberto looked as though he might have wished to argue, but stayed silent. 

'Theresa, you know my feelings.' said James, 'but I will stand by you, as always.' and folded his arms. 

There were no other comments. 

'Right, we move.' said Theresa with finality, gunning the engine and heading off in an opposite direction to that which once, had to all intents and purposes, been the direction of exit from whatever fine mess they had gotten themselves into this time.

There was no talking as they headed back from whence they came, merely a calm readiness for anything and awareness of what they were doing. There was a marked change in atmosphere -- the two in the back seat not being so physically distant, Jimmy staring intently into the distance, Theresa driving with a studied unease completely unlike her previous desperation, and even Dani seemed to be improving slightly. Again, this reaction to adversity may not have been normal, but then, neither were they so. 

Inevitably, as luck would have it they had not gone far in their chosen direction before they spied a figure by the side of the road. 

Though the figure was still far enough off to be of matchstick proportions, Theresa slowed the car considerably. 'Right.' she said, her Irish lilt showing just the slightest sign of strain. 'Anyone think this figure has _nothing _at all to do with our illusionary antics?'

'I think it ain't necessarily so.' said Roberto, and was ignored. 

Jimmy had by far the sharpest eyesight of the lot and was able to describe the figure long before the others could even tell its gender. 'A girl, young. Caucasian, average height, slender build. She looks like a hitchhiker.' he added apologetically.

'Everyone remember how our mother told us never to pick up hitchers?' rasped Theresa grimly and slowed the car further. 

'Must we?' murmured Roberto. 'The car is cramped enough as it is.'

'This may be our only chance to find out where that illusion came from.' replied Tabitha, completely unnecessarily -- as everyone else had decided to ignore Roberto for the duration. 

As they approached the figure, the rest of them were able to make out that Jimmy's description was correct. The girl carried a backpack and was walking along by the side of the road with her thumb stuck out. She looked back at the car approaching, shaded her eyes, and stopped walking, sticking her thumb out even more. 

'Everyone get ready to react if this is a trap.' muttered Theresa, though this was unnecessary, again. 

She slowed down to a halt by the side of the girl and leaned over the side to address her. 'Are you all right there?' she called out. 'It looks like you could do with a ride.'

'I would love that.' called the girl, walking over to the side and staring down at Theresa. 'I've been walking all morning.' She spoke with a slight accent which was unrecognizable to the Americans, but which the Irish girl recognized as East European. Theresa wondered whether or not this was more suspicious, but admitted privately that there was no reason why East European backpackers shouldn't be wandering around America. 

'Well, our car's full, but if you don't mind the squash you're welcome to tag along -- you look desperate.'

'No, I don't mind at all.'

In the back seat, the three young people exchanged glances of varying degrees of dismay, and squashed themselves up even further. The girl swung one long leg over the side of the vehicle and climbed in with an unusual grace that was about twice as suspicious as her accent. The car's original inhabitants tried not to make their intent studying of her appear suspicious in itself. 

The girl, apart from Jimmy's description, had a fair complexion, with blonde neck-length hair mostly covered by a pale baseball cap shading her pensive blue eyes. She was dressed in a small black top which didn't conceal much of her ample bosom, and very short cut-off jeans which did not conceal her long, pale legs. Apart from a backpack that looked too small to carry adequate personal effects, a bottle of water (unfeasibly full) and sturdy boots, she was not dressed at all for an arduous hitchhike -- though Theresa observed to her irritation (and suspicion) that the other girl was not sunburnt at all. 

Looking round at her, Dani felt uncomfortable and distinctly queasy. It was a feeling she tried to suppress. It was an effort to take her eyes off her. 

After the girl was squashed into the back -- showing no discomfort at all -- the car set off again. There was an oppressive silence, and Theresa found herself hoping that someone would make some small talk before the girl decided something was up. 

'So, where are you from?' queried Roberto smoothly and flirtatiously, with a dazzling smile. He had ended up next to her, and it was impossible that her slender body could've not ended up pressed against his. 

'I am from Hungary.' said the girl shyly, looking at him from under her baseball cap. She looked about seventeen -- younger than anyone there. 

'I must remember to go there sometime, if the girls are all as pretty as you.'

She tittered on cue. 'You are funny.' Though she had laughed just then, the pensive expression never really seemed to leave her face. Understandable, perhaps...

Tabitha looked not only daggers, but also katana and shuriken at Roberto. He blithely ignored it. 

Have they forgotten this girl could be a potential threat? wondered Theresa internally, and decided to herself the only reason the team had survived this long was with Cable's influence. With her leadership, she didn't give them a snowball's chance on their own. 

'You will not find many girls like me in Hungary.' said the girl with unreadable emotions. 'Since the collapse of Communism, there has not been much for our young people. We find work where we can. I am coming to America to visit relatives who came here before the Holocaust, and hopefully, to get a green card. I am good at school...' She trailed off.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Was it normal to give such an extended monologue on your life story, wondered Theresa, or was it just a foreign social tone? 

'And what is your name, menina?' queried the Brazilian. 

'Stacey Horowitz.'

'Pleased to meet you, Stacey. I am Roberto, and these are Tabitha, James, Theresa and Dani.'

Dani smiled at the girl weakly. Her intense blue eyes stared at her with a calculating expression, and she could not meet them. Her close proximity confused and unsettled her, in ways she would rather not think about. As against that, her headache was momentarily improving. 

'So where exactly are you going, Stacey?' asked Theresa, rather more sharply than she'd hoped. 

The girl didn't notice the sharpness, it seemed, and Theresa wondered again if this meant anything, and also how much paranoia was necessary. 'I am going to visit my relatives...' she hesitated almost a fraction too long, 'in Almost Reno, New Mexico.'

There was a shocked silence. The girl looked discomfited. 'Is this not the right way? I was afraid I might have gotten lost.'

'Actually, we aren't sure either.' muttered Theresa. 'Which way do you think it is?'

'I thought we were headed in the right direction.'

Theresa glanced across at Dani, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Whatever glamour cast on them had clearly reversed itself, and it seemed they were once again headed in the right direction. The sun's placement in the sky and the orientation of the mountains all agreed, this time. 

'Yeah, we're goin' there.' sighed Theresa. 

'I'm glad.' said the girl. 

They fell into silence once again. How can we be sure she is what she says she is? wondered Theresa.

Suddenly, she had a flash of inspiration, one so blindingly brilliant that she forgot about her sunburn and had hopes for her team and herself yet. 'How about some music, Stacey?' she said, and turned to Dani. 'Dani, could you get out my ''Hits of the Sixties and Seventies'' collection, and put on CD 4, Track 10? Really _fucking_ loud.' she added sotto voce. 

'Comin' at ya.' muttered Dani, and fiddled about in the glovebox. Though the car was old, the kids had jury-rigged a CD player and radio loud enough to be heard over the open road. 

The CD was found and the track begun. Some Shaft-style doo-wop funk guitar started off -- as loud as she requested -- but only Theresa knew how misleading this actually was. 

'She came/There's blood on the streets, it's up to my ankles.' sang Jim Morrison from both speakers. 

'She came/There's blood on the streets, it's up to my knee.' sang Theresa, scarily enough, doing both parts, and at least as loud as the CD player could manage. Stacey winced, and she was betting it wasn't just because of the volume. 

'She came and then she drove away, Sunlight in her hair.' sang Theresa joyously. 'I love the Sixties and Seventies, hey, Stacey? Though I'm betting you didn't get much of them behind the iron curtain.'

'I wasn't even born,' muttered the girl with the first trace of sourness, 'and neither were you.' 

We're onto her, thought Theresa, as everyone else looked at her as though she had gone mad. 

The section she was waiting for -- the bridge -- came along, and Theresa made sure to enunciate along with it, very, very clearly.

'Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding... images crowd the youngster's fragile eggshell mind.'

For the rest of the team, it was as though the heavens opened and the angels said 'Ah.'

The song drew to its conclusion, though nobody was paying any attention by that stage. As it finished Theresa reached over and clicked it off, nearly crashing the car off the road. 'Well, that was good, wasn't it, everyone?'

There were murmurs of assention that would have been over-enthusiastic even if Jim Morrison had been in the car with them. Stacey was tight-lipped and silent. 

'Legend has it that when Jim Morrison was a young boy, he drove past this wrecked wagon that was full of all these hurt Ind- Native Americans.' Theresa corrected herself swiftly, 'and he was so upset that his parents told him that _it never happened_.

'Do you know anything about anything like that, Stacey?'

'I'm not sure I do.' said the girl, though her voice had gone cold and hard. 

'That's funny.' said Theresa conversationally, 'because something like that happened to us just now...'

There was a pointed silence, that grew so prolonged and thick it could've been cut with a banana. All senses were on Stacey, though with varying degrees of noticability.

'Very well.' said Stacey, so quietly she could barely be heard. 'I suspect my task will be easier if I no longer delude you as to my identity.'

Theresa started to bring the car to a halt. 

'Okay, ''Stacey''.' said Theresa. 'We know you're onto something, and that you might not be all that you claim to be. It's time you fessed up, before things get any more complicated.'

'You seem a nice girl.' said Roberto. 'We wouldn't want things to be getting too... difficult.'

'Very well.' she said with a coldness and self-assurance that were far beyond anything she had displayed before. The car had halted, and she got out of her own accord, standing in the road and staring coldly down at them. The others looked at her uneasily, wondering what this meant. 

'You are right that I should tell you who and what I am, for I know everything about you and your creed. You are _X-Force_, a group of young mutants banded together by the freedom fighter known as Cable to fight a rising tide of racial oppression. You have severed your ties with your one-time mentor in order to strike out on your own.'

There was a change in the visible scene that was too subtle and too rapid almost to be noticed, but the entire team, used as they were to flash and pop, gasped as one. 

No longer was the girl before them clad as a (rather underdressed) backpacker. Instead she was clad entirely in a matt black outfit that clung to her like a second skin with no visible seams or fastenings, and left no areas of flesh visible, not even her eyes. Around her slender hips and shoulders were a series of belts covered in ammo pouches and various bits of equipment. The baseball cap had been replaced by a bizarre high-tech headpiece, covered with sensors, ear-, eye- and mouth-pieces, and what appeared to be a laser sight, and was fairly obviously a sensory enhancement/communications unit. The backpack and water bottle she carried had been replaced by an American Army assault rifle that was cocked against her hip. 

'I am a Ghost.' she said calmly, 'a Field Agent of an international mutant organization which holds everything you take for granted to be obsolete. We oppose everyone, and everything, that you stand for.'

'And... I need your help.'

****

1.2. Samuel Guthrie frequently wondered -- more frequently, these days, than he cared to admit -- which of the young girl known as Sarah's personal characteristics made her more unattractive. Was it her permanent bitter snarl and harsh and intolerant manner -- or was it the plethora of bones sticking every which way out of her face?

Sam was certain of one thing though -- without one or both of those things, she would be unsurpassingly beautiful. She had a perfect figure, clear skin (apart from the rapidly-fading scars left when she removed her bone pieces) gorgeous red hair, beautiful blue eyes, and wonderfully regular features. Indeed Sam grew increasingly disturbed that he was able to reel all those characteristics off so readily. He had heard their fellow newcomer Japheth speak in as hushed tones as his Afrikaans doggerel got of when Amahl Farouk had temporarily reversed her disfigurement, and she'd been revealed as 'a gorgeous doll' apparently. Though apparently not only her bones had gone then, but her bitterness and sarcasm too. 

Already Sam found himself forgetting what his previous girlfriend had looked like. He had tried looking at pictures, but all he could see was Tabitha in the arms of his best friend Roberto, and all he could feel was a blind, all-consuming rage. Indeed, it was easier to deal with Sarah threatening to rip his liver out...

All these things went through Sam's mind, as he stood before the door to Sarah's quarters -- also known as the basement. 'This way to a Dark Ride' was the crudely-slashed legend disfiguring the wood. Why then was he so certain it wouldn't be?

Sam dropped his hand to the door handle for the umpteenth time, then took it away again. He was scared. This was logical. But why, instead of feeling like he was about to enter the quarters of a consummately-skilled warrior and bloodthirsty murderer, who had slaughtered dozens of human beings in cold blood for the genes they bore and had threatened to do the same to him, did he instead feel like a teenager heading for the door of his first date?

Something pricked him in the back. 

'Step inside, cornball, if you've got the sand.' rasped an unmistakable voice.

'Yeeargh!' yelled Sam, leaping up and spinning around. There was a gasp behind him, and he felt an unmistakable line of pressure cutting round his midriff, and someone to his rear leaped back. The pricking pressure abruptly withdrew.

'Sorry! I'm sorry!' gasped the voice that could only have come from a throat lined with bone. 

'Sarah.' Sam admonished. 'You shouldn't sneak up like that.'

Behind him was a young girl of average height and athletic build with short, disordered red hair and blue eyes, clad in very ripped jeans and halter top. She was immediately identifiable by the tracts of bone of varying length sprouting from her head and torso which had pierced continually the ragged clothing she wore. In her hand was one such which had been crudely and seemingly organically shaped into a rough parody of a pirate's cutlass. She looked down at it guiltily.

Sam felt a cool breeze about his midriff. He looked down and saw that his loose athletic t-shirt had been slashed right open. 

'Holy crap,' he gasped, 'do you have to walk around waving those things?'

Momentarily, the girl had looked alarmed and concerned. Inevitably, her mask of bitterness and disaffection fell back down over her face. Now, she really looked ugly. 'Yeah, well, I never know when any of you Xavier lackeys are going to turn on me again.' she said, and petulantly flung the bone weapon into a corner. The rest were forever cleaning up the things. 

'Nobody's going to turn on you, Sarah.' said Sam, wearily. It felt like he'd gone over this ground a thousand times, though in reality they rarely exchanged words. He was familiar with her attitude from the others, though. 

'Oh? I seem to remember your wolfman nearly killed me.'

'You nearly killed _him_. Would of. Have you ever considered that your attitude might not be the best way to make friends and influence people?'

She scowled. 'Was there something you wanted, Kentucky? Or am I going to have to eviscerate another of you weeds?'

Sam wondered if he ought to count to ten. He decided she wasn't about to offer him the time. 'Look, I was just wondering how you were.'

'Well enough. For someone who had to grow a new heart.'

'We went through a bad patch in that last scrape. Ah still owe you for helping me out. But I don't know what happened to you...'

She scowled alarmingly, and Sam decided he had made a mistake. 'All right, I won't go there. But I know you had a tough time. We all did.'

'I_ do _hope you're not going to start slobbering all over my feet for rescuing you again...'

'We're team-mates, Sarah.' Sam continued wearily. 'We're supposed to look out for each other.'

'Yeah, right! What with the wolfman and the wind-rider, I'm amazed I'm still alive, let alone on Xavier's team of overgrown boy scouts.'

Sam couldn't answer that. He was terrified of Logan, and didn't like Ororo much either. Admittedly the conflict with the latter was precipitated precisely by the girl now tearing into him, but-

'Look, Barney Fife, I have stuff to do. Why don't you make like a tree and-'

'Why don't you show me your room?' Sam suddenly blurted out, surprising even himself. 

Sarah's red eyebrows almost met her red hair, despite the scarps of protruding bone that seemed endemic on her forehead. 'Whaaat? What would you possibly want to do that for?' but for a moment, Sam thought she looked almost pleased. Wish fulfilment, maybe... 'My room is decorated Morlock-style. Not for sunboys...'

'Try me.' said Sam breezily with a cheesy grin. 'Trying to accept other cultures is what Xavier's is all about, right?'

'Hmmph!' snorted Sarah, but for a moment Sam decided she almost smiled. 'Very well. But you have to wait up here a moment first.' A furtive look crossed her face, which while usually bloodthirsty, violent and murderous, wasn't usually furtive. 'I have to -- er -- tidy up.'

'Go right ahead.' said Sam expansively, and Sarah shoved open the door and stomped down the stairs. Sam recalled how in his home county girls were supposed to act ladylike. Then again, he almost preferred the stomping. From below there came a sound like a great tearing and ripping of paper -- what could it be? It sounded like Sarah testing her bone blades on last decade's newspapers.

'Finished!' 

With a mix of apprehension, excitement, and -- almost -- guilty arousal, Sam prepared for the worst and made his way down the stairs. 

The worst wasn't actually what he got. The cellar was appropriately dank, gloomy, hung with some appropriately grisly trophies of taxidermied vermin and festooned with the omnipresent bone extrusions, but it was entirely clean and lacked even the normal smells rooms lived in acquire. Sam supposed that in their filthy environment, the Morlocks had had to have been obsessive about hygiene. 

As against that, the only furniture or approximation to it was a torn army blanket on the bare stone floor. Sarah was sat in _seiza_ or Japanese formal posture, which Sam immediately decided would kill his ankles if he tried it. 

'Like it?' said Sarah with an almost hopeful undertone to the perpetual veneer of sarcasm and bitterness. 

'It's nice. You don't have to live down here in the cold, though.' Sam could already feel the chill of the underground seeping into his bones. He supposed having two hearts gave the girl vastly increased resistance. 'There are plenty of rooms upstairs...'

'Close to the werewolf? Never mind.' She rocked back on her heels, narrowing her eyes. 'Besides, I have to live like a Morlock. It reminds me of what I am... where I come from...' She sounded almost wistful.

'Sarah, I hate to tell you but the Morlocks are gone. There's nothing for you in the tunnels. Callisto sent you here because of that. Besides.' he said to lighten the tone, 'if I want to remind myself of where I come from, I hang a picture of the football team on the wall. I don't try to make my room like the mine...' He shuddered. Unfortunately he _had_ now reminded himself of the mine. 

Sarah missed the reference to their common history. 'It was due to Xavier's negligence that the Morlocks were destroyed. And it was kicked off by that slimy New Orleans louse. He as good as killed my entire race, from what I hear...'

'Yeah, but he also saved your life -- personally. And we're certain that Remy's paying for his crimes. If he's still alive... His chances of getting out of Antarctica weren't too great.'

'Bad pennies like him also turn up sooner or later... He'll probably be back at Xavier's before we know it. He better watch his back if I'm still around...' She gritted her teeth and slashed the air viciously with a bone blade, at precisely the right height to make Sam's eyes water. 

'Yeah, well, I think we've seen the back of him for a good long time. And if he comes back here... I don't think I can face sticking around anymore. Tabitha and 'Berto would be easier to face...' his lip curled bitterly.

Sarah watched him with interest, if not actual jealousy. 'Yeah well, you and me both, Sam.' They fell silent for a while, staring into the darkness, till Sam wondered just how positive an accord based on hatred and bitterness actually was. 

Sam found himself thinking of that line of dialogue in _Pulp Fiction_ about 'comfortable silences'. He and Sarah had found themselves not knowing what to say to each other, precisely like two green teenagers on their first date. It wasn't a comparison he found he enjoyed making. 

'So who is this ''Tabitha'' then?' queried Sarah with studied offhandedness, not looking at him and picking her nails with a two-foot blade of bone, but with an edge of jealousy and hatred in her voice that made his flesh creep.

Sam decided he had preferred the silence. 

'My girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend, you might say.' he muttered, unable to prevent his voice going low and bitter. 

'What happened?' Sarah grated, trying to pretend, and failing, that she didn't care. 

'I left her in the other team when I came to join this one. The other team... the one I led.' His voice went lower still. 'It's funny... ah led them dozens of times when Nathan was off on one of his inscrutable missions, and now ah'm here I'm not even a corporal. Just another dogsbody. 'Course, back then I didn't have to contend with anyone like Ororo or Logan or Rogue. I wonder if they were born on a higher power level than us, or just got that way through gettin' older...'

Sarah didn't seem interested in his post-leadership angst. 'So what happened with... Tabitha... then?' She pronounced the other girl's name with unparalleled venom, but Sam didn't seem to notice, or react if he did. 

'She hooked up with my best friend Roberto while they were travelling around the country. I found out in the _worst_ possible way. I walked in on them when they were... you know.'

Sam fell silent. It lasted for a little space.

'So... what did she look like?' Sarah breathed.

'Short, athletic build, close-cropped blonde hair.' Sam realised he sounded like a cop describing a suspect. Was that how he really felt?

Eventually, 'Was she... pretty?' Sarah grated, coughing the words up like blood from a pierced lung. 

Sam found himself automatically about to answer yes, then realised he didn't know. How could he, when he could no longer remember exactly how she looked? 'You know what? I honestly couldn't tell you. And that's the truth. I can't even remember exactly what she looks like anymore...' Sam stopped himself, wondering what he was saying. 

Sarah was quiet. 'One way or another.' she grated eventually, voice low with bitterness and self-hatred, 'she'd be prettier than me.'

Sam checked a sigh. 'Sarah, you are pretty. Beautiful, even. You just don't let yourself be, because you're so desperate to prove you aren't, and alienate everyone around you. Your bones wouldn't matter if you had a 'tude adjustment. You'd be way prettier than Tabitha, for a start.' Sam flushed guilty, wondering what degree of betrayal this might be. 

Sarah looked at him through the darkness. It was sufficiently dark that he couldn't tell her exact expression. 'You sound like the angel.' she said wistfully, bitterness and sarcasm absent for once. 'Apart from Callisto, you're the only person who ever said anything like that to me.'

'You mean Warren? I know him the least of all out of this bunch.'

'He's great, and good. The best of them all.' 

The conversation might have progressed save for a gruff voice that shattered the mood completely.

'All good and cosy down here?'

The Canuck accent was unmistakable. 

'Logan!' gasped Sam, standing up guiltily. He recalled he'd been expressly fprbidden to spend time with the girl, who had been described as 'a dangerous terrorist in our midst.' He wondered if he'd be punished, before reminding himself not to be such a wuss. 

'Who gave you permission to come down here, whiskers?' snarled Sarah, sounding much angrier than the occasion warranted -- and comparably guilty. She seized two lengthy bone scimitars and placed a foot on the lowest stair menacingly.

'Me. You needn't get all bashful, because I don't care what you've been doing. But now you'd better drop your roses and grab your weapons, because I smell _intruder _and being the only ones I could find, y'all just pulled yourself interception detail!'

'I'm on it, sir.' said Sam immediately, powering up with a low roar and flying up the stairs. He was inwardly grateful to have got off the hook so easily. 

'Sounds fun.' grinned Sarah and started up the stairs. 'I might even get to see you _bleed._'

The hairy little man she addressed -- who bore more than a passing resemblance to Clint Eastwood -- scowled at her, and together they headed for the front door of Xavier's mansion.

Out in the grounds, it was an average day, save for a high wind which blew various bits of debris underfoot. Sam, hovering some feet from the ground, wondered how Logan could smell anything at all.

'Okay, we got adult male, about fifty metres upwind.' grated Logan, belying the notion. 'Sam, keep a recon from on high, Sarah, come with me and cover the ground.'

'Yes, _sir!_' said the young girl sarcastically.

Logan popped sets of three bone claws from each hand, as though envious of her weapons. 'Don't push it.' he growled. 

She grinned. 

The three of them made their way into the sparse woods around the estate. They had not gone far at all when a blur about the height of a man cut around them with subsonic speed and a higher gust of wind, and stopped immediately behind them as a tall figure standing upright. 

All of them stared at it in shock. It was dressed in the same all-over black body suit as the girl who, some miles away had confronted their sister team, with the lack of the rifle being the one difference. The red laser attached to his sensory-enhancement headpiece bore into them. 

'Greetings, lackeys of Xavier.' said the figure. 'I have heard much about you.' His voice was distorted and metallicised by the hood, but was clearly identifiable as a English public school/Oxford brogue accent. Of course to the Americans and Canadian, it sounded exactly as they expected all Brits to sound, expectations coloured by a lifetime of shit movies like _Three Men and a Little Lady_.

'Greetings yourself.' rasped Logan, brandishing his claws, 'but you may not have noticed this is private property. Then again, since you know us as lackeys of Xavier and you're wearing those crackerjack clothes, I guess you already know that!'

'I guess I do.' said the unidentified antagonist mockingly. 'I also know that you are designate Wolverine, and your companions are designated Marrow and Cannonball. 

'You're supposed to be the toughest guy in existence. But I bet I could take you down...

'_Shortarse.'_

'Why you little-' roared Logan, hurling himself at the figure. Sam noticed, though, that he retracted his claws at the last moment -- this clearly was going to be a non-lethal lesson.

He never got to give it, though.

The unidentified assailant waited until the last possible second, then dodged aside so fast it couldn't be seen and performed some kind of martial arts throw on Logan so fast none of it could be distinguished. 

Logan sailed into a tree with a sickening crunch and slid gently to the floor, out like a light. 

'Aah.' said the assailant smugly, knocking imaginary dust from his hands. 'That's got the old confidence glands squirting away.'

Sam and Sarah, though they didn't let on, were both badly shaken. Two things were obvious -- the guy in front of them was some kind of superspeedster, and worse, they had absolutely no chance against a guy who took down Wolvie. 

'Sir.' said Sam, trying to keep the shake from his voice, and assure himself of his own invulnerability (which wouldn't, he reminded himself, work for Sarah) we don't know what you came here for, but rest assured that if Wolverine is hurt you are going to pay for it.'

'I.e., I gut you.' said Sarah nervously, showing uncharacteristic loyalty.

'That won't be necessary.' said the stranger breezily. He reached up to his hood and pulled it off his head, which came away despite the lack of seams or fasteners in the garment, without tearing or ripping either. Beneath it was a face with a square jaw, blonde hair parted in the centre down to his ears, and a tan, which looked as though it belonged to an officer in a First World War movie. 'Wolverine will make a full recovery. I just wanted to see if I could do it...

'Please allow me to introduce myself. I am designated _Lifeline,_ and I am a Field Agent of an underground mutant organization known as The Ghosts. One which archly believes itself in opposition to the X-Men, X-Force, and Magneto.

'I am here... to _defect_ to Xavier's Dream.'

Sam and Sarah could only look at each other in confusion.

'I'm sorry,' said Sam eventually, 'but what are you on about?' 

****

1.3. Nathan Summers had not been having a good time of late. 

This was usual. The pressures of his mission from the future usually ensured that the weight of the world was quite literally, on his shoulders and the doleful mien this gave him meant that he wouldn't be too welcome at the majority of parties -- not that he ever went to any.

However, things had taken a considerable turn for the worse when, in the midst of one of his interminable fights, a bolt from nowhere had lashed him right through the brain and stripped him of the psionic abilities which had been a part of him since puberty. His telepathy gone, his telekinesis off-line, he was rendered vastly weaker and his ability to carry out his lifelong mission had been cast into serious doubt. Worse, his ability to keep the techno-organic virus which festooned half his body had been compromised and, while it seemed to have been fairly quiescent of late, he had no doubts at all that he would start suffering soon. So -- business as usual.

He was making his way through the deserted streets of New York City at three in the a.m. when he was surprised to see a figure standing in front of him. Nobody was usually out at this hour. The figure stood, hands on hips, blocking his path.

Nathan was not too surprised to see that the figure was wearing a costume. It was a Ghost uniform, of course, though Nathan was not to know this.

Nathan halted.

'Is there something you want, friend?' 

Though the strangely-costumed stood alone, Nathan was certain that others stood with him. Time was he might have psi-scanned the figure and its invisible companions to find out their true objectives, telekinetically removed or nullified whatever illusion powers kept them unseen, and used the combined totality of his psi-powers to neutralise any given threat. 

Now... he was helpless.

For the first time in months, Nathan found himself wishing he had a gun.

He was answered for a while by the figure's harsh breathing, then:

'Nathan Dayspring Askani'son.' grated the figure, 'you have been under surveillance for a considerable length of time by myself and my associates who represent an organization known as the Ghosts. We have determined that your actions have been central to raising the public profile of mutants and damaging their reputation with the human majority.

'In order that you cease and desist these activities, you will be terminated forthwith. 

'Target designated. Fire!'

Nathan had just resigned himself to a fight when, from a position some feet to the left of the costumed figure, a pincer of laser light arced out and slashed at the side of his neck. 

Ironically, it was only his techno-organic infestation that saved him for, though the lasers instantly atomised the flesh and blood of his neck, beneath it it found the cold shining steel of the T/O material, which reflected it away relatively harmlessly. 

Nathan scarcely had time to notice the flash of agony as half his neck dissolved away and blood started pumping from it in sheets, for he was launching himself into a cybernetically-enhanced flying kick which threw him some feet into the air -- aimed straight at the source of the bolts. 

As he reached the spot he felt some attempt to grab his leg and divert the force of the blow, but Nathan was too big, fast and powerful and he felt his leading foot crash into flesh and bone. As he landed he heard the familiar sound of a human body slumping to the floor. Unfortunately, though he had hoped he would get a chance to look at his assailant, the invisibility effect held. His attacker did not become visible. 

He was just turning to the one visible figure when he calmly stepped aside, and a spray of acid hit Nathan from _another_ invisible source. 

Again, he was lucky, for his cyborg side was turned to the source of the attack. The smoking green acid dissolved his flesh and skin on contact and, though this was exquisite agony, as it reached the cold hard steel below its effect was much reduced. 

Nathan pounded towards the source of _this_ attack and aimed a massive fist at it. 

He heard a vicious hiss from in front of him. His fist went through thin air and from nowhere, a vicious claw slashed along the back of his forearm, laying it open to the -- organic -- bone.

Nathan screamed this time. Something had been in those claws that burned like fire -- poison, or more acid. There was another hiss that sounded like victory.

Trying desperately not to lose his nerve, Nathan aimed a rain of powerful punches and kicks at the source of the hiss. He had to take this opponent out fast -- invisible and equipped with those kind of powers, it could easily wear him down, cut him practically to ribbons and inflict massive, lasting damage with the acid and poison. 

He felt half a dozen claw blows cut deep into his body faster than it takes to say, and something else struck him a powerful blow in the flesh-and-blood shoulder, injecting him with something foul that burned in the wound ten times worse than salt, but he felt his own blows crashing home onto something hard that felt like chitin and he heard corresponding grunts of pain.

Eventually -- though the fight had lasted mere seconds -- he heard his adversary crash to the floor before him, and the frenzied attacks on him ceased. But he was bleeding heavily from more than a dozen wounds, and his blood burned and his head ached with the poison that was in them.

And the visible figure was walking towards him.

'Greetings, Cable.' said its dry voice from behind its mask, sounding almost amused. It was a deep, coloured sounding voice, and it belonged to a massively muscular man who looked at least six feet four. Nothing else about the figure could be discerned. 'I am impressed that you managed to deal with my companions so easily. However, you now have me to contend with. I am designated _Arbiter,_ and I consider it an honour to fight with you.

'However, you will not find me such an easy prospect. And you will surely _lose_.'

'Who are you? What do you want?' said Nathan, backing away rapidly.

'I have already offered enough exposition. Do not force me to repeat myself.' The figure aimed a punch at Nathan that made the air whistle. Nathan dodged, barely. The poison in his wounds and his blood loss was slowing him and making him lightheaded. 

It was clear that his assailant wasn't going to offer him much in the way of conversation.

Nathan let fly with a roundhouse kick at the other man's head. He did not dodge, did not even make any effort to block. He just let it hit him.

Nathan felt like he'd just kicked a steel door. He dropped his foot to the ground, hobbling in agony. The other figure did not make any sign of even being slightly hurt. 

It became rapidly obvious that the other man possessed the power of invulnerability. 

He followed up with his own attack. 

A side kick that smashed aside Nathan's pathetic attempt at a block like a sheet of paper smashed him in the metal part of the stomach. It sent him flying back vertically almost twenty feet before he collapsed backwards over a fire hydrant and hit the ground hard. He groaned. He revised his estimate of his opponent's abilities upwards to include superhuman strength.

Nathan debated his chances as he heard the other man's purposeful stride approaching him.

He was without telepathy, without telekinesis, without a gun, bleeding from a dozen wounds, heavily poisoned, and fighting an invulnerable opponent many times stronger than himself. It had also started to rain. 

Nathan decided discretion was the better part of valour, selected a suitably dark alleyway, and ran off down it as fast as his T/O infested legs could carry him.

****

1.4. Trish Tilby had been dragged from the shower when the telephone rang, and despite several long and tense minutes of conversation, had still not returned to it. Instead, as dense clouds of steam ballooned from the bathroom, she was clad only in a brief house-coat, shivering in the cold and dark of her apartment's main room, and typing feverishly into her grey laptop.

The article was one which she believed would blow apart the current world order of human/mutant relations, and its bare bones ran simply thus;

During a recent battle with the terrorist group known as the X-Men on the astral plane, the insane mutant Amahl Farouk who took the name Shadow King caused to be released an electromagnetic pulse which shut down the telepathic and adversely affected the peripheral abilities of _all_ telepathic mutants. While the X-Men succeeded in neutralising the abilities of their fellow mutant, the electromagnetic pulse had permanent consequences. Every telepathic and telekinetic on this planet is currently operating on a diminished capacity.

We can only guess what repercussions this will hold for the ever more strained relations between homo sapiens and homo sapiens superior. What is certain is that the vastly greater power base from which mutants have always operated has been severely dimished. Due to the actions of mutants like Magneto, Apocalypse and Onslaught, humans seem to have been given any number of plausible reasons to hate and fear mutants. Will this substantial power loss result in a wave of reprisal attacks on the now defenceless psionic mutant population?

This reporter can only hope that, without the threat to normal humans of having their private thoughts made public or their wishes controlled mentally, the humans can now sympathise with the plight of mutants and extend a hand in friendship -- rather than raise it in battle.

Tilby, having finished, expelled breath slowly. She read through her article several times. The only barrier to it being accepted, she thought, was that it might not be believed. Otherwise... it was probably the hottest story since the Legacy Virus. 

There were, of course, uncomfortable parallels with that story. Both had been told to her by her partner, Hank McCoy, her 'inside correspondent' on mutant affairs who was about as inside as could be. The last time she'd broken one of his stories, he'd been angry enough to split up with her. Remembering that, did she seriously believe that releasing the story of the Psi War (as she'd been told the psionics called it) would carry no consequences?

It didn't matter. She had no choice. She was a journalist, and more to the point than any vague work ethic of the public having a right to know, she was _ambitious_. In the dark of the lonely nights, frequently she wondered whether her close relationship with such a mine of mutant information existed mostly -- or solely -- to serve that ambition. 

In the warm light of day, she could thrust that thought away with disgust and disbelief, but it didn't alter that -- no matter the cost -- she would sell the story of the Psi War to the highest bidder. 

From the bathroom, the steam still billowed. It seemed to fill the apartment. 

She frowned. Her back ached from bending over the laptop, her brief housecoat was soaked through, and she was cold. Had she left the shower on, precipitating all this steam? If so, she guessed she would get back in. 

She got up, garment barely long enough to cover her hips, and strode over to the open door of the lit bathroom. No joy -- the shower had long since been turned off. She switched off the light too, and shut the door. 

Where was all the steam coming from? It was almost like a mist. She considered opening a window, but it was cold enough already. 

The steam seemed especially to be gathering around the laptop. She frowned, concerned about the effect on the computer's inner workings -- she hadn't even saved the Psi War story. She walked over to the computer, waving her hand in front of the screen to dispel the cloud. 

She heard a hiss. Where was that from? She looked around her, but she was alone in the apartment, of course. The security in this building was consummate. 

She turned back to the laptop. The mist around it had cleared up surprisingly easily. She was surprised to note, there was no sign of condensation on the machine anywhere. This should have surely happened with steam?

The mist had cleared _suspiciously _easily. 

In fact, it was clearing even now. In fact, it seemed to be moving back and gathering behind her. 

Tilby's stomach seemed to plummet like in a fast-moving elevator. She spun round, towards the centre of coalescence of the mist. 

'Coalesce' was the right word. 

The mist was forming rapidly into the figure of a tall, slim woman clad entirely in black -- a Ghost uniform, in fact. She was unarmed, but even so the sight struck Tilby with terror -- almost irrationally for someone with such exposure to mutants. There was something about the all-covering Ghost mask.

Trish ran for the door in terror. Before she'd had chance to move, the figure had stepped forward and dispassionately struck her in the throat with extended fingers. She went out like a light. 

The Ghost stepped immediately over the comatose body of the nearly-naked girl and strode over to the laptop. She read the article for the second and third time. 

She turned off the computer without saving it.

Trish Tilby awoke an indeterminate time later. She was tied to a straight-backed chair. She was naked beneath a form-fitting garment which clung to every inch of her skin. Realizing her mouth and nose were covered, she panicked, hyperventilating, but soon found that the garment was permeable to oxygen. However, her vision was covered. 

She could smell burning, smoke and cigarettes.

'Awake?' said the deepest, most gravelly voice she had ever heard in her life, sounding like the owner had smoked a hundred cigarettes a day every day for the last 30 years. Judging by the smell, she guessed he probably had. 

A rough hand grabbed her chin, turned her this way and that. She was too demoralized even to struggle.

'Good.' grated the gravelly voice. 'I am Firebat, a field agent of a mutant organization known as the Ghosts. You have been found to be in possession with intent to release of information which will bring mutants further into the public eye and severely compromise our already threatened position.

'The idiot that told you of it should have been _shot_, but that's neither here nor there. The only way to prevent this information being released is to detain you indefinitely. Pray we don't decide on a more permanent solution...

'In any case, we were very... _glad_ to hear of the Psi War of which you so misguidedly wrote. It explains more than a few things.

She heard heavy feet turning away. 'Wait.' she said in a tiny, broken voice. 'I won't say anything! I won't tell anyone about the Psi War, or the Ghosts, or anything. Just don't leave me here!'

'You seriously expect me to believe that?' rasped the Ghost. A door slammed.

Tilby was left alone in the dark and the cold and the silence.

****

1.5. 'And that's all I can tell you.' said Stacey Horowitz tightly. 'There's nothing else.'

Unable? thought Theresa. Or unwilling?

X-Force had decamped to a motel about thirty miles outside of Almost Reno, and had subjected their scantily-clad charge to something like a third-degree. She had been relatively forthcoming, but it soon became clear that she was only letting on a part of the picture. It was also clear, from her cleverly couched, evasive answers, that she had been trained to handle an interrogation just such as this one. 

She had reverted to her clothing of tiny top and shorts, rather than the all-over black bodysuit, and X-Force had no way of telling if either costume, or both of them, were illusions, given the stated nature of her powers of controlling electromagnetic radiation -- they could all vouch for the efficacy of her illusions. With so much of her body exposed, it seemed Dani Moonstar could hardly take her eyes off the young partisan, and indeed was the one who was always first to rise to her defence when it seemed the interrogation was becoming too obviously such. Theresa observed this with mixed feelings, though she was pretty sure the others hadn't noticed (Roberto seemed about as fascinated with the legs as Dani). Her sexuality was her own problem, but sleeping with the enemy was rarely, if ever, a good idea.

If the Ghosts were, indeed, the enemy. According to Horowitz -- who might of course be lying with the combined skills of a double agent and a politician -- they were an entirely peaceful organization, teaching mutants to learn to hide from hostile mutants and humans and to control their powers with the end of concealment. Their founder, doctor of parapsychology Archibald Mendel, had adapted this philosophy from the early actions of the original X-Factor, and had apparently been taught to use and expand his powers by Jean Grey, believed at the time to be dead. This philosophy was not one endorsed by the X-Men or X-Force, but neither was it directly opposed by them either. 

_To escape is to choose invisibility _was all very well, Theresa reasoned though, but what about the mutants who don't want to be invisible? Or want to have mutants rule the world, or have a philosophy that opposes yours? How do you deal with them? The dichotomy was obvious. Yet Theresa refrained from asking the question, knowing it would put the wind up the girl. 

She had gone on to tell them a little about the Ghost organization, again making it sound no more threatening than an old ladies' sewing circle. However it was divided into cells (which again sent alarm bells through Theresa's mind. Weren't subversive political parties like the Bolsheviks always set up like that?) each of which had a Field Agent, who looked human, an Underground Agent, who didn't, and a Link Agent, who was a telepath. Stacey had just been sworn in as a Field Agent when the trouble began. 

(And again, wondered Theresa, why does a peaceful organization have 'agents'? Agents implies some kind of task to be fulfilled, and the different types involve different types of tasks. It must be more than simply teaching mutants to hide themselves away.)

Stacey's cell was permanently stationed in Almost Reno, in order to observe the high mutant population and to help them when they gained their powers at the onset of puberty. And recruit them to their cause, Theresa added to herself, though the girl didn't of course say that. The agents of various organizations which flocked the village, carrying out much the same task, were oblivious of the Ghost presence, who ran rings around all of them -- about the only bit of Stacey's information Theresa completely believed. 

The trouble occurred when their Link Agent had collapsed whilst walking down the street. Thinking this was heatstroke, a couple of the local hicks had taken her to the doctor. He had apparently been unable to revive her, and Stacey had been horrified to observe, from her vantage point across the street with a barrier of invisibility around her, numerous Men in Black entering the doctor's. Neither they, nor the Link Agent, had emerged. 

'You say this Link Agent is a telepath?' Dani asked abruptly, staring deep into the other girl's blue eyes. 

'Yes, why?' said Stacey, gazing back. 

Dani dropped her eyes, unable to face that stare. 'Oh, nothing.' she muttered. Privately she thought it explained why she'd been having such bad headaches, and her powers had suddenly become difficult to use. But if _all _telepaths had lost their powers? What did that mean?

It did not look good. 

With their Link Agent/telepath MIA, the remaining agents had no way of contacting their Ghost overlords or of asking for help. Observing X-Force to be in the area, and knowing their policy to be one of helping other mutants in trouble (this part was laid on pretty thick, as the girl was obviously fishing for that help) they took the unanimous decision to approach them. The team having already left, the illusion, suggested by an old tape of the Doors, was the only way to bring them back... and so, here they were. 

'And that's the end of it. There's nothing else.' said Hologram tightly. 

There was a brief silence. 'The obvious conclusion, Ghost Agent.' Theresa said presently with heavy overtones, 'is that you want us to help you rescue your telepath so that you can get back in touch with your masters. Right? Right.'

'Theresa, can we have a word?' said Jimmy tightly.

'Sure Jimmy, go right ahead.'

'Outside, I meant. On our own. Alone.'

The rest of X-Force stared at them, with expressions ranging from surprise to mistrust. 'Okay.' Theresa muttered. 'We'll be quick.'

As soon as they had got a safe distance away she turned to Jimmy and said, 'We really shouldn't do this, Jimmy. It implies to the rest of the team that we set ourselves apart from them. Sure, that little girl's an unknown quantity, but-'

'She's not telling the entire truth.' said Jimmy immediately.

Theresa felt herself grow irritated. 'No shit, Sherlock. It doesn't take a telepath to work that one out.'

'And I have a generally bad feeling about this. This whole affair stinks. These ghosts aren't here just to look at the kids. I know it. And what's worst about the entire thing is that illusion she summoned. Why would a peaceful organization summon up something so... sinister?' He shivered.

'And why have they got cells and agents, and so on and so forth.' Theresa muttered by way of reply. 'Yes, it's fairly obvious these Ghosts aren't some charity. They also must be pretty powerful. I mean, this place must be fairly insignificant if not unheard of. Who's to say how many other ''cells'' are in more... _strategic_ places?'

'I hear that. I also have a really bad feeling about all this. I think we should just leave these Ghosts to their own devices and hope this communication breakdown puts them out of business...'

'Thinkin' the same thing, but that goes against everything we stand for, doesn't it?' said Theresa, heart sinking. 'We've been taught all our lives to stand up for other mutants, by Xavier and Nathan and everyone.' There was an edge of bitterness in her voice. 

'Yeah, but...' Jimmy paused. 

Theresa reached across and took his hands in hers. 'Look Jimmy, I appreciate your input and share your concerns, but retreat and surrender just isn't an option here, okay? We have to go back inside and tell that girl we're going to help her. 

'What I do guarantee you is that when we do get out of this we are going to blag what we know to everyone we know, and this Ghost organisation is going to be so thoroughly investigated by the X-Men and X-Factor and Xavier and Cable and us and everyone else we know that they won't be able to hide anywhere ever again. I mean, that little girl is hardly going to silence us, is she?'

'Yeah, I guess.' said Jimmy with little conviction. Then he clearly had another sudden thought. 'And another thing. Doesn't something about the precise nature of Stacey's powers disturb you?'

Theresa frowned. 'No, why? Creates illusions, doesn't she?'

'So her name would suggest. But she slipped up when she told us what the precise nature of her powers was. They involve controlling electromagnetic radiation.'

'So?' 

'Who _else_ can control electromagnetic radiation?'

Theresa looked blank, then her heart plummeted. 'Oh, _no._' She paused, wringing her hands. Then she seemed to come to a decision. 'Well,' she said reluctantly, 'even if that girl is another Erik Magnus Lernsherr, we've still decided to help her. Let's face it, Jimmy,' she said, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere, 'if she was that powerful, she wouldn't need our help, would she?'

It was feeble, and they both knew it. 

'Come on, let's go back inside.' she said, pulling at his hands.

They returned to an atmosphere of considerable tension. It seemed nobody had said a word to anyone since they'd left. Dani's and Roberto's eyes were fixed on Stacey's legs. Tabitha was staring moodily at Roberto's back. 

Stacey looked up immediately they re-entered. It seemed she knew what was coming. She stared up at Theresa as she walked up to her.

There was silence for a brief space.

'Okay Stacey, we've decided to help you.' said Theresa tightly, to gasps and glares of irritation from the majority of the team that hadn't been consulted. 'But understand -- this isn't the end of this. We have every intention of passing on what we now know about your organisation to the X-Men, Cable, X-Factor for definite, and maybe SHIELD and Black Air as well. We can't allow mutant secret societies to go wandering around unheard of and unobserved, do you understand?'

'I understand.' said Stacey quietly, staring back at her with beautiful, unreadable, big blue eyes. 'If what's happened here happens elsewhere, there won't be any Ghosts left for you to investigate.' 

Everyone present shuddered.

Theresa cleared her throat, stumbled over her words, and started again. 'Right. I suggest we all turn in for the night.' She paused, knowing what she would have to say would involve the most logical arrangement, but knowing full well what tensions it would create. 'Me and Jimmy will have one room, Theresa and Bobby will have another, and Stacey and Dani will have the last.'

Dani looked simultaneously thrilled and terrified. Stacey, who would have to have been blind not to have observed the effect her slender, pale body had had on the Amerind, eyed her speculatively.

'Okay, get to it.' Theresa muttered, turning away. 'We'll discuss what we're gonna do over breakfast.'

After they had left, Jimmy said, in a voice of doom, 'You don't really think this will be as simple as it seems, do you?'

'I wasn't aware that it was simple at all,' muttered Theresa. She started to unbutton her shirt, then stopped herself, reminding herself that herself and Jimmy weren't quite that intimate. 'I'm going to go take a shower. This sunburn is killing me. You dark skinned types have it easier than you can possibly imagine. Try not to walk in on me...'

'I won't.'

But, as she walked into the bathroom, she knew that that was precisely what she wanted him to do.

****

1.6. 'You can touch me if you want.'

****

1.7. 'And that's all I can tell you,' said Lifeline expansively. 'There's nothing else.'

He leaned back easily in his chair and smiled at Sarah, who had been glowering at him throughout and picking her teeth with a bone katana. 

'I don't trust him as far as his hair flops about,' she grated. 'I say we _gut_ him.'

'You always say that,' muttered Sam.

'At ease, children,' frowned Ororo. 

Sarah subsided into a muttering ball of hatred. Sam favored Ororo with his choicest dark black I-was-the-leader-of-X-Force glare. 

Lifeline observed all this, of course. He seemed quite happy to be causing all the trouble he was. 

Lifeline had told them, after they had returned to Xavier's mansion and assembled the remainder of their brethren, a little of his organisation the Ghosts – with his own unique slant on things, of course. 

'The Ghosts,' he had begun with his air of casual superiority, and his Oxford brogue/public school accent which all the Americans present naturally assumed all Brits sounded like, 'are a bunch of mother-fucking cowards-'

'Language, please,' Ororo had muttered, glancing at Sam and Sarah. 

'Sorry. Anyway, their sole aim in life is to make themselves invisible and then cower away from Magneto, Friends of Humanity, Sinister, Apocalypse, SHIELD and anyone else really. But especially them.'

Lifeline continued in about this vein, with the same air of utter contempt for the organisation he'd just left, until he'd told them approximately the same information that Hologram had told X-Force, on the other side of the continent. His audience came up with much the same conclusions and suspicions – along with one additional one… how is it that such an allegedly pathetic organisation can come up with someone that can take down Wolvie? However, because there was a bigger audience, and they were more wary of him, he ended up answering the following additional questions (with a lot more contempt, of course):

Why did you leave the Ghosts? Isn't it obvious? They're a bunch of losers. Your pretty leader has already prevented me from saying what I _really _think of them… So why did you join in the first place? Hey, I was just leaving Eton. I didn't even know I was a mutant. To take a year out before university, learn to hide from those who would persecute me, to be powerful beyond my wildest dreams… what kid wouldn't? It was only after I got some experience of life apart from the ivory towers of Oxford, Eton _and _The Ghosts that I realised just how crap they were! How were the Ghosts started? Archibald Mendel was one of the foremost experts on psionic abilities at the time [even Lifeline gave him that]. This, and the fact that he was close to being ousted as a mutant, brought him in to contact with the original X-Factor. He was deeply impressed with their philosophy of teaching mutants to hide their powers – which they long since abandoned – and they in turn were deeply impressed with his breadth of knowledge and his control over his powers, which at that time were psionic forcefields. Jean Grey became convinced that his powers could be extended to a broad spectrum of other psionic abilities, and he, of course, agreed with her. Evidently he succeeded. When came the time of leaving, he decided to take their philosophy as his own… Who were the first ghosts? Morlocks fleeing the Mutant Massacre. They'd just watched their entire way of life destroyed, and due to the actions of the Marauders, Nathan Essex and Remy Le Beau, had learned to hate other mutants as much as they hated humans. They were ripe for the plucking, ready to believe in anything. Defender – Archibald – offered them sanctuary, became their Messiah, and soon realised, that if he could get impressionable mutants to believe his paranoid's philosophy, he would gain more power… In any case, most of those Morlocks became the first Underground Agents. A few were telepaths and became Links, and a few looked human enough to be Field Agents. Who are the leaders of the Ghosts? Everyone knows that, because you're psionically trained by each one personally, and they're supposedly so powerful that it doesn't matter who knows. Personally I'd rather spit into the wind, but… Anyway, Archibald Mendel is the Ghost Commander, of course. Cordelia Frost is the Link Commander. Mastermind, Jason Wyngarde's daughter, is the Field Commander, and also a telepath, which is nice. Finally Persuasion or the Purple Man's daughter, once of Alpha Flight, is the Underground Commander. So most of the Ghosts are people we'd all forgotten about? That's right. Along with most of the Morlocks? How many Ghosts are there, anyways? Don't know. Don't really care. The Cells aren't supposed to know about any other Cells. But some information must get between the cells, right? Right. The Telepaths frequently gossip, because they never contact any other telepaths, and even if they're sticklers for the rules, some information still gets through the link. What sort of information? Precisely the sort of thing you'd expect people to gossip about… who's the toughest, who's the strongest, who's got the biggest brain, who's got the biggest dick… alright, I'll tone it down. You just get rumours, anyway. By far the strongest rumour is that one or more of the Command Cell is going to step down, and that the most powerful and/or intelligent mutants are going to replace them. Hologram, Arbiter, Witch, those are the names that get bandied around. But I've only met Witch. 

PART 2

THE HAMMER FALLS

We now come to the matter of the Ghost training, which we believe -- as we admittedly would -- is the most superior training of any organization in existence; for we are able to use the unique powers of the Command Cell -- who are of course all mutants like yourself -- to virtually eliminate the time, resources and difficulty involved in other training methods. Instead of any such outmoded methods, we use _conditioning._

It could be argued that this is an invasion of the Ghost's privacy, but we believe it the lesser of two evils -- annihilation by the humans and the non-Ghost mutants being the obvious alternative. And rest assured that you will know how this conditioning was done before the end of your training and can reverse it -- if you wish. Though it is a testament to the superiority of our knowledge that nobody has ever yet done this. 

The first six months of your training will be general, and in it, you will be trained by the four Ghost commanders who each have knowledge to impart. The Underground Commander will give you the benefit of her military knowledge, espionage and sabotage tactics, and mind control. The Link Commander will teach you of psychology, usage of or defence against telepathy and coercion, and will impart the entirety of her first class college education. The Field Commander will impart the sum totality of her skills used in the successful life of crime she led before her enlightenment as a Ghost. Finally, I shall teach you of the martial arts, the ability to blend and fit in amongst any social strata or any situation, and my unparalleled knowledge of parapsychology and mutant abilities. 

Do not forget that this teaching will all be done telepathically -- it will be implanted in your conscious and subconscious mind with such surety that all these skills will become first, rather than second nature. Thus it is unlikely that you will have to move from your present location (it is essential that Ghosts maintain as normal a facade as possible to the outside world, for invisibility has more than one aspect) or that you will ever meet one or more of the Command Cell. You will of course be enrolled in martial art schools, survival courses, part-time army units, and so forth, but these will not so much be things learned as things remembered -- they are more to prepare the body for the rigors of black-belt Aikido and such tasks. (A fringe benefit of Ghost training is the satisfaction you gain from your teachers' amazement at your progress -- but of course, they only get to see such progress once. Only one Ghost is ever enrolled at the same school).

During this training you will be tested in a series of mainly illusionary exercises; some entirely mental, some not, some possibly even testing you against another Ghost (though by the end of this first six months, Ghosts are always able to recognize one another by a unique psionic signature) Though of course your real training will be in the school of human life as you learn to hide your mutant nature and rapidly growing knowledge -- for you will never again lose another fight, and must take care not to let your burgeoning skills get the better of you so people wonder where you learn these things. 

And, of course, you will be trained in the use of your mutant powers. With my unparalleled knowledge of parapsychology and mutation -- enhanced by my one-time association with the original X-Factor, the only mutant group yet to come close to the Ghost ideal of invisibility -- and our unique conditioning training methods, we can guarantee that your powers will be advanced to their uttermost limit. One thing that you will learn, if you can, is to _make yourself invisible_ -- the most desirable ability for a Ghost. You'd be surprised how many powers can adapt to this, or the appearance of it. 

At the end of six months your general training will be complete, and you will be ready for your specialized training for the ultimate role you will take in the Ghost organization. Like movements of this type throughout history, the Ghosts are organised into _cells_. Each cell contains one or more of a Field Agent, a Link Agent and an Underground Agent. You as a Ghost are destined to become one of these. 

The majority of Ghosts become Field Agents, and the criterion for this status is is that you must have a human appearance. The Field Agents carry out the most standard assignments in Ghost operations -- maintaining a human lifestyle, sabotage, espionage and infiltration amongst other things. The next six months training complies to this necessity. 

Those gifted with the power of telepathy become Link Agents. It is the job of the Links to maintain a world-wide communications network through the medium of telepathy. To the Links falls most often the mantle of leadership, as you try to bring your cell to comply with the international Ghost vision. To become a Link, your telepathic powers will be trained even more intensely than before, to reach across worlds, reprogram the thoughts and memories of others and utterly dominate another's will. The Links are then ready to report directly to the Link Commander for their cell. 

Finally, those whose appearance cannot pass for human become the Underground Agents. Though less high profile, their roles are no less important. To them falls the task of supporting the cell, supplying safe houses and equipment, and so forth, and also advancing the Ghost cause with training in propaganda, subversion, interrogation and coercion. 

No cell must ever know the identity of any other cell, nor anything else of the total Ghost organization, so even if one Ghost is compromised, he can give only information of his cell while the organization as a whole is safe. This has been forever the pattern for movements of our type, and it has never been proved wrong. 

Finally, you will be assigned a codename, take a position in a Cell (usually one of more seasoned veterans than yourself) and take part in our mission of observation and gradual subversion. You will be given a Ghost uniform of unstable molecular fabric, a sensory-enhancement headpiece, and weaponry appropriate to your task. 

Then, with your help, and as the numbers of the Ghosts grow ever more numerous, our cause will be inexorably advanced upon this world...

Dr. Archibald Mendel, 'Defender'

THE GHOST MANIFESTO

PART 3

THE CASTLE CRUMBLES


End file.
